


Pet Peeves

by RuleBritannia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kid Fic, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:49:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuleBritannia/pseuds/RuleBritannia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could be said that sociopaths aren’t born, they’re bred. The same could be said for loyal, patient friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pet Peeves

**Author's Note:**

> I ship J/S hard but, for obvious reasons, this doesn’t really qualify as J/S. Not really. Still, it’s there, if you are looking for it. One more thing, please feel free to point out any Americanisms, or crimes against the English language in general.

 

PET PEEVES

 

The first thing Sherlock remembers clearly is waking up the morning of his third birthday. Any memory before that is too fuzzy and laden with doubt. He remembers the tingling in his gut when his parents entered his bedroom carrying a large package, wrapped expertly in bright blue paper. He remembers not being able to contain his smile, and trying to rule out toys by the size of the box. It had been a big box (it had holes in it; that seemed weird, so it had registered as important)  He remembers it was his father who, grinning from ear to ear, approached the bed with his present, while his mother remained by the threshold, with a small, measured smile on her face. 

 

He had torn at the wrapping anxiously, vaguely registering his mother’s admonishments. Whatever the present would be, it would be new, and that made it exciting. Then the box had jerked, on its own, and his eyes had grown wide with what could have been fear, except the tingling in his gut had got stronger. His father had laughed. His mother had seemed to grow tired of the game, and reminded them both breakfast was served and to please hurry up, before leaving.

 

A small whimper from the box, and Sherlock’s excitement nearly caused his throat to close, as he finally lifted the lid. The puppy had seemed as excited as he was, all wiggles and whimpers and wagging, as Sherlock picked it up. Its big brown eyes were partly covered by a mess of blonde-greyish hair that felt really soft to the touch, and in spite of the unbridled show of excitement, for Sherlock the puppy looked quite dignified. At least there was no drool.

 

 It had looked at him with almost awe, and Sherlock had known instantly that they would be great friends.

 

************************************************************

 

Harry wanted a cat.

 

No matter that he’d had his eye on those puppies at the pet shop since forever, or that he’d asked first. Harry wanted a cat, and she would moan and whine and throw tantrums that were really inappropriate for a girl her age, by Job she would get her bloody cat.

 

She was older, her mother had said, she’d waited longer for a pet.

 

Bollocks, she just wanted to one-up him. Like with the cookies.

 

A few scoldings for his foul mouth later, he resigned his argument and made a point to pout moodily all throughout dinner. He was five; he was still allowed to pout. 

 

When it arrived the next day, it looked at John with half -lidded eyes and a look of pure disdain. Good; the feeling was mutual. And Horace was a stupid, pompous name, for a stupid, pompous animal.

 

From then on, John could have sworn every time he sat at the kitchen table to practice his handwriting, the thing would purposely lay at the other end of the table, staring at him with that look of superiority, making him feel stupid for struggling with his h’s. 

 

************************************************************

 

“Now, Winston,” Sherlock whispered to his companion, who just tilted his head in an awkward angle. “Remember the plan: You keep watch for Blackbeard- he’s the chubby one, so you won’t miss him- while I sneak aboard and steal his treasure.”

 

The tilt of Winston’s head became even more pronounced, but he wagged his tail, so Sherlock nodded sharply and went inside, chin high with pride and courage. Sure, if the Queen ever found out he’d stolen two of her scarves (the black one for an eye-patch, the red one for a sash, obviously) she would have his head. But that was what Queens were supposed to do, and no self-respecting pirate would have ever been put off by the threat of retribution. Plus, he hadn’t come unarmed (he supposed she wouldn’t be very happy about him nicking the letter opener either) and he was prepared to fight till his dying breath,

 

“Where would he hide it?” he asked, mostly to himself, though Winston seemed to hang onto every word, diligently waiting by the door. “I know he has some. You saw that smear on his fingers.”

 

Under the bed, perhaps? No, too obvious. He’d been here before, there were no loose planks, like in his room. His drawers were out of the question, as Mothe.. the Queen had sent her hounds in here before, unsuccessfully. He spotted a pile of books by the bed. Of course he had them in his room; **he** couldn’t be bothered to walk downstairs to the library. More importantly, Sherlock doubted his mum would find them suspicious.

 

He spared Winston a questioning look, to which the dog answered by huffing happily, so Sherlock knelt next to the pile. He hardly knew enough yet to recognise the odd one out, so he’d have to search one by one. Still, he made sure to memorise the titles, in case he was right.

 

The Prince, The Art of War, Animal Farm. Nothing. Lord of the Flies, Macbeth, Julius Caesar. No luck. But at the bottom of the pile, Sherlock spotted something. I, Claudius, read the spine, which was considerably cheaper than the others. He’d seen Mycroft read this one before, many times, and it certainly hadn’t been so flimsy looking!

 

Triumphant, he opened the book, to find it hollowed and full of toffees in brilliant golden wrappers. He turned to Winston, grinning from ear to ear, only to find the dog staring worriedly towards the stairs. He then heard the creak on the wood, whining at the ton of fourteen year old villainy climbing it, so Sherlock pulled out his sword, and tucked the treasure under his arm.

 

“Abandon ship!” he yelled, because that is the way to do it, and rushed to the door, almost running into Mycroft.

 

“Sherlock, what in the name of…?” He started with a look of mild annoyance that soon turned to surprise. “That’s my book!!”

 

“You, sir,” Sherlock tried to sound as menacing as he could, pointing his sword to his foe, and backtracking down the hall, with Winston in tow, “Have been defeated!”

 

He then turned to run away, laughing madly, while Winston celebrated his victory with joyous barks.

 

“Don’t run with that, you lunatic!!” He heard his brother bellow, “You’ll kill yourself!!”

 

************************************************************

 

His father fastened his coat around himself, while his mother leaned towards Harry with a concerned look on her face.

 

“You have your Grandma’s number, if anything happens.” His sister huffed, annoyed, and turned her face when their mother tried to kiss her cheek. She just laughed it off, though. “Too old to get a kiss from your mum, eh?”

 

She turned to him, and he stood a little straighter, with the vague hope that she would see him old enough, and responsible enough, not to have to be babysat by a fifteen year old twat. No such luck.

 

“You listen to your sister, ok?” His mum said tenderly, ruffling his hair, to which he just blushed and nodded. “Be a good boy. We’ll be back by ten, and you better be in bed by then.” She warned without any real threat in her voice. He always was.  

 

No sooner they had crossed the threshold, Harry gave him a murderous look and went to lock herself in her room. So, she wasn’t in a despotic mood today, it seemed, though the night was still young.

 

John settled himself in front of the T.V, and searched the premises for the remote. That’s when he saw it, **Him** , on the fourth shelf of the bookcase, walking through his mother’s favourite porcelain figurines like he was made of air and couldn’t touch them, always with that bored look on his face, that was only replaced my a manic expression when the git decided to cause havoc.

 

Though he could very well cause havoc, and still look bored.

 

John bit his lip. Any sudden movement and the cat could very well get startled and smash the figurines to pieces. But he couldn’t just leave him there, could he? Very, very slowly, and holding his breath, John rose from the couch and made his way towards Horace. The cat immediately noticed him, but decided to stay very still, staring at him fixatedly, almost curiously, as he approached.

 

Soon, it became evident that it wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d expected. John wasn’t tall enough to reach the fourth shelf yet, and fetching a chair to aid himself would cost him precious time. “Look,” he said softly, not taking his eyes of the offending animal as he inched his way to his father’s reading chair. “You’re a smart cat. We both know it’s a bad idea to break those, right?” He was talking to a cat, for Pete’s sake. But at least he had his attention.

 

Horace sat on his haunches, and brushed one of the figurines with his tail, making it shake perilously, but luckily not knocking it over.

 

“Fish,” John said, with a bit of a tremor in his voice, as he brought the chair closer to the bookcase. “I can get you fish, if you just stay really, really still for a moment. I promise!”

 

The cat seemed to be listening to him, it actually looked like he understood for a moment, staying so still John began to wonder if he was still breathing. He almost looked like another ornament, with his back straight, his coal-black fur and his dignified expression.

 

Encouraged, John climbed onto the chair carefully. “Nice kitty, that’s it,” he cooed, as he slowly reached for Horace. But the moment his hands were about to secure his prey, the cat leaped over his head with a speed and grace that had John - and three of the porcelain figurines- tumbling dangerously, as if in slow motion. For one terrifying moment, while the chair he was standing on tilted backwards, he leaned sideways, and the figurines tumbled forward, he was sure he was done for; either the fall or his mother would kill him, and there would be no eighth birthday for John Watson.

 

Yet by some miracle, the chair landed safely on the ground, he on the chair, and the figurines haphazardly on his folded arms. It took a few moments of paralysis to convince him that, yes, he was still alive, before John let out a sigh of relief. He turned his head to curse the bloody animal for all eternity. He was staring at him from the couch, with the most innocent look he had ever seen Horace wear; round yellow eyes, full of curiosity, and not an ounce of guilt.

 

The curse never left his lips, though, as he could also see Harry, with a satisfied half-smile, staring from behind the couch. 

 

“Oh, you are so dead,” she said.

 

Horace just licked his paw, looking bored.

 

************************************************************

 

It was on the third day of his convalescence that Sherlock started to suspect he had actually been imprisoned. The previous two days he’d been too weak and too achy to really care much about being bed-ridden, and slightly too delirious to feel really bored. On one occasion, he had even seen a really huge white blob dancing around his bed, and for some reason, assumed it was the Grim Reaper. Terrified as he had been, at least he hadn’t been bored.

 

Now he almost wished he was delirious and terrified.

 

Winston was asleep at the side of his bed, or at least he had been, until Sherlock poked his head down to look at him. He lifted his head groggily, immediately wagging his tail when he saw him. The dog had been at his side at all times, some times just staring at him intently, as if he could make Sherlock better by willing it.

 

“We have to escape,” he croaked. His throat still felt three times its intended size. “You will help me, won’t you?”

 

Winston was on his feet instantly, nuzzling him, licking his nose. But before he could come up with a plan the door opened to reveal his big brother, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of what could only be soup. Or poison. Or poisonous soup.

 

“How are we feeling?” he said in that pleasant, condescending tone that made Sherlock feel irritated no matter what was coming out of his mouth, as he settled the tray on the bedside table.

 

“Bored,” he replied, flopping onto his back. Mycroft ignored him, of course, and stuck a thermometer into his mouth.

 

“Don’t bite it,” he warned, with a tilt of his head and a raise of his eyebrow, and Sherlock did his best to huff around it. Mycroft then went on to straighten the bedding around him, helping him sit, fluffing the pillows, and feeling his forehead in a most clinical way.

 

Winston looked from the thermometer to Mycroft, to him a few times, curious, letting out the most imperceptible whine. Sherlock just shrugged at him. It was a long minute.

 

Mycroft removed the thermometer and inspected it, scrunching his eyes.

 

“Well, your fever’s gone down quite a bit. You should be up and about in no time.”

 

Sherlock took his words to heart, and leapt from the bed, ready to run to the gardens and..., probably just run, and then run some more. But the movement was too brusque, and his knees buckled under him, while his ears started to make the weirdest buzzing sound. Mycroft was there to catch him, though, before he fell flat on his face, and picked him up. “None of that,” he said, almost tenderly. It felt weird, awkward, but not at all unpleasant, and Sherlock instinctively rested his head, that suddenly seemed to weigh a ton, on his brother’s shoulder. 

 

As if realising he’d done something he shouldn’t have, his brother swiftly laid him back down, and straightened up, standing at a safe distance as he covered Sherlock with the blankets. He patted him lightly on the shoulder and forced a smile.

 

Still a little disoriented, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “When is Dad coming back?”

 

“Oh, well,” Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. “As soon as he finishes prancing around Barcelona. His exhibition ends on the 18th, but you know how he is.”  Sherlock just hummed. He wasn’t really sure what date it was, but he wasn’t about to let on. “I’ll have one of the maids bring you something to read, ok?”

 

With a mixture of bemusement and disappointment, Sherlock saw Winston rush after his brother as he was leaving, nearly causing him to fall. Mycroft mumbled something unintelligible, and was startled enough that neglected to close the door properly. While he admired the dog’s ingenuity in providing an escape route, he really was in no condition to get up, and now he was alone.

 

But before he had time to really reflect on it, Winston ran back in, with one of Mycroft’s slippers between his teeth, obviously presenting it as a gift. Or maybe the gift came later, as Mycroft ran in, panting, and looking positively furious. “There you are, you … Beast!” he launched at the dog, who was obviously faster. Mycroft nearly falls on his ass again, and Winston even had the nerve to wait for him at the door, wagging his tail.

 

He heard the ruckus of the chase and his brother’s creative insults for about ten minutes after they both disappeared, but the images and sounds kept him smiling for a good hour afterwards.

 

************************************************************

 

John closed the door behind him. He hung his coat on the rack, dropped his rucksack on the couch, and breathed against his freezing hands a few times. He could hear his mother in the kitchen, probably making tea. He could use some tea to warm himself up. He was so cold he felt as if it irradiated from him, freezing the air around him.

 

“Hello, sweetheart,” said his mother, barely turning her head as he walked into the kitchen. “I made toast. They’re probably still warm.”

 

He hummed in appreciation and poured himself a cup.

 

“Jam?” he asked, taking the cup and the toast to the kitchen table. His mother passed him the jar- strawberry- and kissed the top of his head. John frowned a bit, but didn’t pull away.

 

“How was school, baby?”

 

“You know,” he shrugged, as he spread the jam generously and evenly. . “Ok, I guess.”

 

He hated being so vague, but there really wasn’t much to tell. It wasn’t like anything particularly exciting ever happened at school, was it? At least, not to him.

 

“Alright,” His mother gave him a soft smile. “I got to do the laundry. When you’re done, be a dear and take care of Horace’s litter box?”

 

John rolled his eyes.

 

“Mum, it’s not _my_ cat, you know?”

 

“I know, sweetie,” She patted his head. “Harry went out, and honestly, the state of that thing is embarrassing. Give your mum a hand, yeah?” and she left the kitchen.

 

He huffed. Of course he would. He always did.

 

He wasn’t about to let it sour his mood, though. He still had homework to do, and his own chores, but that shouldn’t take more than two hours. Plenty of time left for Mario. And while Rose had laughed when he’d complimented her earlier, she hadn’t outright mocked him.  He was home, he was warm, and he had toasts with jam. It still was a moderately good day.

 

Thinking that he could get ahead with his homework if he did it while he ate, he got up to look for his notebook, still chewing on toast. After rummaging a bit for a pen, he was ready to go back when a loud crash came from the kitchen, followed by a startled meow.

 

“Oh, no,” he breathed, and ran, notebook and pen carelessly tossed aside.

 

The scene that met him almost had him laughing, if he didn’t also feel like shouting.

 

Horace was curled in a corner, licking at his paws and staring at him almost accusatorily. By the side of the table, there was a pool of red gooey and broken glass.  Sagging his shoulders, John didn’t even bother to yell at the cat, and went straight to the paper towels.

 

“John?” came his mother’s voice from one of the bedrooms.  .

 

“Really,” he grumbled without much energy. “Sometimes, I think you do this on purpose.”

 

Horace meowed meekly. At least he looked as miffed as John felt.

 

After disposing of the glass, and cleaning up the spilt tea and jam, John sat back on the chair to catch his breath. So much for gaining time.

 

The cat approached him carefully, intent clear in his eyes.

 

“Oh, no,” John said sternly. “You’re not getting petted today. Not by me. No.”

 

 

His mum poked her head in the kitchen, looking worried.

 

“John, what was that noise?”

 

John merely sighed.

 

“We’re out of strawberry jam.”

 

************************************************************

 

Sherlock laid curled on his bed, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as he listened to the argument downstairs with confusion written all over his face. He hadn’t meant for this to happen.

 

“What do you want me to say?” His father’s tone was pleading, with undertones of anger and desperation. “That I’m sorry? I am! But this wasn’t just me, love…”

 

“Don’t call me that!!” His mother, distraught, though not crying. “You have your strumpet to call silly nicknames now!!”

 

He’d overheard the maids one day, saying that they didn’t understand why his dad stayed with them, saying he was so kind, so gentlemanly and handsome. They didn’t like the way Mycroft and his mother treated him, and went as far as calling his mother fat and demanding, saying he could do much better.

 

That had left him feeling uneasy, so he started paying more attention.

 

“You barely even notice I’m gone!”

 

“You barely make a difference by being here!”

 

He noticed someone had been tending after his father while he was away on his many trips, because he had started coming home better fed and groomed than he used to. He seemed happier, seemed to smile more, but once or twice he caught him looking at his mother guiltily. His mother didn’t seem to notice anything strange, though it might have been because she was so busy. She didn’t work, but she knew so many people, and connections were ever so important, she always said.

 

Muffled voices now, still angry, though his father’s started to sound defeated.

The bracelet his father had brought back from France was obviously not for his mother (it wouldn’t fit her, and she never wore silver, anyway). The implications that his dad may not like his mum that much anymore scared him, made him angry.  It was simply a matter of right; no woman had a right to take care of his father, except his mother, and he shouldn’t be buying presents for anyone else.

 

He’d just thought that, if he brought it out in the open, then whatever it was would stop, and his father wouldn’t leave them.

 

His father was climbing up the stairs now, dragging his feet. Bad news, then. He made himself smaller when he heard the door open. His dad sat next to him and sighed. He sounded so tired.

 

“This isn’t your fault, you know?” he said softly, stroking his hair. Sherlock fixed his eyes to the wall. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“I know,” he replied bitingly. He had just told the truth. His father had lied. “You did, though.”

 

Both lying and telling the truth couldn’t be wrong, and it couldn’t be that neither was right. It just didn’t make sense. He knew as much. But maybe there was something wrong with him, because he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, yet he still felt this was his fault.

 

“Listen,” His dad placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. “I’m going to go away for a while, longer than usual. But you can come visit, so we’ll see each other just as much.”

 

Visit. He knew boys who had to “visit” their dads. He knew what it meant. Sherlock closed his eyes and shrugged, as his anger, fear, and sadness battled each other until all that was left was a cold feeling that made him feel empty.

 

His father kissed the top of his head.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered before leaving. “I love you.”

 

Sherlock lay there for the longest time, just staring at the wall, wishing his mum would come and hug him, or even Mycroft. He didn’t dare go look for either, still afraid they would blame him. He just wanted that ugly non-feeling gone.

 

Then the door creaked. His father must have left it ajar because he didn’t hear the handle. He always did that. Sherlock still didn’t turn, but held his breath, waiting. The bed sunk under new weight, and instantly he knew neither his mother, nor his brother, had come.

 

Winston’s furry head plopped down his middle, and the dog let out a small whimper, that sounded as sad as Sherlock should have been. Of course he was sad, Winston loved his dad. Sherlock laid on his back, stroking his friend’s ears, as the first and last tear of the night fell down his face.

 

“Don’t be silly,” he whispered. “Mum’s right. He was barely here anyway.”

 

 

************************************************************

 

 

 John felt bad for thinking it, but he really should be studying. He had a test the next day, with or without Harry’s tantrums.

 

“Has she done this before?” the PC asked. His mother nodded and turned to him before answering, tightening the arm around his shoulder affectionately.

 

“John, sweetie, why don’t you go to your room?”

 

John stared at her questioningly. She was obviously very upset. His father walked up to them, wrapped an arm around his mother and nodded.

 

“Go on, then.”

 

So he walked out of the living room slowly, still a bit shocked at the scene of two real police officers talking to his parents. It felt like a bit of an overreaction. Harry was old enough, but his mother always worried so much. He could still hear them talking as he approached his bedroom, though nothing he heard was news to him. He didn’t understand why they’d sent him away, really.

 

“Yes, but never for this long a time. She’s been hanging round some really bad company, coming home drunk, or high… I just…” she held down a sob, and the rest was drowned as he closed the door.

 

He knew Harry was alright. She’d turn up sooner or later. She always did. Still, he sat on the bed and eyed his geography book wearily. Would it be insensitive of him to start studying now? He did care about his sister, but what would happen when he failed his test and she came back tomorrow, all teary-eyed and hung over?

 

He huffed and picked up his book anyway. He hated geography, really, and he wasn’t about to use this as an excuse. Plus, it kept him occupied. Of course, as soon as he opened it on the chapter he needed to review, Horace crept on top of him and rested half his fat ass on the book, his face to John, as if daring him to remove him from his chosen spot.

 

This wasn’t at all new. It seemed Horace had taken a liking to his room, rather than Harry’s. Harry had long since stopped taking care of him, so it was only natural. And they had seemed to come to a sort of truce. John fed him and petted him regularly, and the Horace didn’t plot his untimely death. So what once would have been outrage, now was no more than a mild annoyance.

 

Scratching the cat’s ear, he sighed.

 

“I got to study, Ace.” The cat just purred and pushed against his hand, demanding attention. “Oh, alright. Come here, then.”

 

He put the book aside, though it took some struggle and indignant meowing, and cradled Horace in his arms. It was surprising, really, how well they got on now. He knew they hadn’t had the most auspicious start but, thinking back, Horace had always paid him more attention than he had Harry. Sure, it usually amounted to a lot of biting, scratching, breaking stuff, and tripping him, but he was always there, around him; much to his chagrin. Even before he started feeding him, so that couldn’t be it.

 

There were moments where it made him feel slightly special. Oh, he knew it was ridiculous. But to have such a dignified, arrogant animal actually go out of his way to annoy him?

 

“You like me, admit it,” he cooed, scratching the cat’s head between his ears. A weak meow mixed with a purr was his only reply. John sighed. “Your mummy will be home soon, you’ll see.”

 

He knew she would.

 

************************************************************

 

 It was roughly 3 am when Sherlock dropped the pretence of sleep and silently started getting dressed in the dark, with grim determination in his features. His side and his jaw still hurt, but it was the only thing he could feel, and he clung to the pain as if it were the only thing stopping him from vaporizing into thin air.

 

It had all been so stupid, so fortuitous. A kid from his school happened to live two houses down the road. He’d noticed ages ago, but hadn’t deemed it relevant. The kid had seemed harmless enough, and he had never acknowledged they were neighbours, until two weeks prior when, after an apparently important and successful rugby match with another school, he had started hanging out with  the same kids that had made a habit of making Sherlock sorry for ever being born.

 

From then on, he’d had to endure the teasing and the dread of escalation on his walk from the school to his house. But it hadn’t gone further than a few nasty insults until that afternoon. Sherlock had been feeling particularly annoyed and bored, and not twenty steps from his doorstep, he’d turned and retaliated with a bit of accurate information about one of the boy’s mother. He should have stayed silent. Just twenty more steps, and nothing would have happened. He hadn’t noticed the living room window was open.

 

He knew everyone had to be soundly asleep, and that both his mother and brother slept like the dead, but he still took extra care in climbing the stairs as quietly as he could. He opened the door to the backyard and paused, making sure he hadn’t been found out, before stepping out. Winston whimpered miserably when he saw him. He couldn’t bark, the horrible leather muzzle tight around his snout. The dog was tied to a tree, his eyes big and sorrowful, as if knowing he’d done something wrong, but had no idea what it was. If Sherlock had still had one, it’d broken his heart.

 

He kissed the top of Winston’s head and loosened the muzzle a bit, to make him more comfortable.

 

“I’ll take it out when were far enough,” he whispered, untying the leash from the tree. “Now, be a good dog and stay quiet.”

 

He had long since come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t normal. But some things still surprised him. Like the irrational fear the boy had displayed when Winston had been merely tugging at his pants to get him to stop beating on Sherlock. Or the stupidity of the other boy, who’d had the brilliant idea of pulling the dog away by sticking his hand inside the dog’s mouth and getting three stitches on his index finger for his troubles. Or the fact that, while he knew his mother was right, and nothing could be done about putting Winston down, he was sneaking out of the house at three in the morning to give his best friend at least a chance of survival after being sentenced to death for simply coming to his aid.

 

It wasn’t about justice, not really. He just figured that, if he could break him out, then he would. He owed him at least that much.

 

It took them about half a hour to reach the park. There were some unsavoury characters loitering about, but Sherlock didn’t care. He removed the muzzle, the leash and the tags. Winston’s tail began wagging in appreciation, and he nuzzled Sherlock’s hands.

 

“You’ve been a good friend,” Sherlock said. “My best friend.” _My only friend,_ though he didn’t say it. He knew the dog wouldn’t go on his own. He was a loyal dog. He could not understand that leaving was best for him, and much as it would have helped him with what he was about to do, Sherlock could not fault him for his stupidity.

 

He stood up, a mask of contempt firmly in place, and raised the arm holding the leash.

 

“Go away,” he hissed. Winston just cocked his head. “Get out of here!” Winston whimpered, his tail between his legs, but he did not move. So Sherlock took a step forward and struck him with the leash. Even then, the dog merely backtracked slightly. “Stupid dog, go!”

 

Another strike, and Winston ran a few ways away, but not completely. It was enough, though. Sherlock turned to leave. The dog would follow him a few more times, and a few more times he would threaten him, and that would be the end of it.

 

He wasn’t as naïve as to hope Winston would be alright on his own. Most likely, the pound would get him, or worse, he would find his way back home. But he’d given him the chance. That was all he could give him.

 

It was his own fault, for letting Winston get too close.

 

For getting too close to him.

 

He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

 

 

************************************************************

 

One day Harry had left, and hadn’t returned.

 

She’d taken all of her clothes, all of her books, and Horace.

 

His mother had cried a bit, his father had been very quiet about it, and John hadn’t known what to feel. She’d been old enough to leave home, certainly. It was the way she’d done it.

 

And what gave her the right to take the cat? She had never given that cat the least bit of attention or care. She had neglected him, ignored him, in every possible way. It had stopped being her cat a long time ago, but apparently she hadn’t realised.

 

John shouldn’t have cared, should have been glad, really. He had his own responsibilities, to be taking the leftovers from Harry. It certainly would be more peaceful around the house now. No more broken things, no more having to hide anything with chicken or fish in it. No more screeching at five in the morning because the cat was bored, or hungry, or both. But he wasn’t glad. He actually missed the bugger.

 

One day he’d come home from school, and found his mother sitting at the kitchen table, looking drawn and older than she used to look. She’d seen him and smiled vaguely, sheepishly, and informed him his sister had called. She was apparently living in some flat with some friends, and she was alright. She didn’t mention the cat.

 

Another day she had called, and dropped the bomb to his mother on the phone. She’d taken it well, even if she was a little shaken. His father was much more on the old-fashioned side. He didn’t accept it so readily, and John thought he would have a heart attack as his mother tried to placate his anger.

 

Several days he had come home to find his mother talking to her, trying to sound friendly and open and concerned, and receiving only reproaches from the other end.

 

Today, he’d come home and his mother had been waiting for him, looking sad and worried.

 

“They didn’t find him when they went downstairs,” his mother was saying, and John could only nod, feeling slightly shell-shocked. “I’m sure he’s ok. I’ve heard that cats can jump from a seven-story building and land on their feet, unharmed.”

 

He was pretty sure that was a myth, but didn’t think he should say it out loud, if only for his mother’s sake. Horace was probably still alive, and probably hurt. He had half a mind to get up and go look for him, himself. He had as much trust in Harry’s idea of a thorough search as he had of her being sober when she left the door to the balcony open. But he doubted his mother would give him the address, if she even had it.

 

Horace was probably curled up somewhere, half broken and alone, and there was nothing he could do to help him.

 

So he went to his room. If he was going to cry, at least he’d do it in private.  

 

Turns out, he had also left his window open. He also found out, as he opened his bedroom door, that cats not only can survive falling from a third floor,  they can also find their way home.

 

_Fin_


End file.
